


Heirs of Salvation

by rednihilist



Series: Thursday's Child 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-11
Updated: 2010-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-08 21:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How things Change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural and certain characters belong to Eric Kripke and Warner Brothers. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.

It's not gradual. At least, he doesn't think it is. Just, one morning like any other, really. Then: BAM.

  
He wakes up before Sam that morning, like always. He crawls out from under the stiff, bleached, thin as a pin sheets. He shuffles into the bathroom, takes a piss, goes to brush his teeth and wash his face and--

  
"What the fuck?!"

  
Dean does a double-take, squints and turns his head, trying for a different angle. He blinks and then blinks again, even stretches back and snaps the light off and on several times. Nothing changes what he's seeing, though.

  
. . . what he's seeing through some. . . weird-ass eyes. What. The _fuck_.

  
"Sam!" Dean shouts, aiming his voice over his shoulder and keeping his eyes on. . . his eyes. "Sammy! Get your ass in here. Pronto."

  
"Dean?"

  
He glances up in the mirror, catches Sam's reflection over his shoulder. He's hovering in the doorway, the hair all fluffed up around his head making him look ridiculously young. Expression on his face isn't, though.

  
Yep, Dean wants to say, but doesn't. He sighs. Just another freaky thing in their freak lives.

  
"What's up?" Sam asks, carefully.

  
"Oh, nothing," he starts, slowly turning around, "just woke up to find The Tooth Fairy'd branched out a bit." He can tell the second Sam catches it. Kid hisses in a huge breath and his face contorts into a confused grimace.

  
"What the fuck?" Sammy whispers.

  
"Amen, Brother," Dean agrees. Sam's mouth twitches at the joke, but he shrugs it off. He steps closer, and then goes about doing some blinking and double-taking of his own. Even reaches up and tilts Dean's head from side to side with a firm paw on the chin.

  
"When-- when did this happen?" Sam murmurs. It sounds pretty much rhetorical, but Dean's in a talking mood.

  
"Well, they for sure as shit weren't like this last night. I think somebody in that bar, not to mention, you know, _you or I_, would've freakin' noticed, Sam."

  
Now the pursing of the lips-- yep. There it is. Bitch face! Sam finishes his careful examination and releases Dean's mug. He stays close, though, leaning up against the wall of the bathroom. And every few seconds, Sam'll look back at Dean with that frown of his firmly in place, drawn back to staring and puzzling like a junkie cat to catnip.

  
Dean can't blame him. After all, it's not every day you see a guy with what literally appear to be. . . stars in his eyes. Little, tiny, shiny, bright, white dots of light that apparently don't change no matter what the hell light source is shining on 'em.

  
Either both he and Sammy are tripping on some serious carbon monoxide and about two seconds away from another road trip down Hell Highway, or this is freaky angel shit rearing its ugly head. Again.

  
Cas has got some splainin' to do.

  
"Hey," Dean starts in a whisper, "you think if I connect 'em, they'll make a pretty horsey?"

  
First, Sam frowns hard, sighing. Then, sure enough, there's a twitch. It's starts off slight, barely noticeable, but Dean waits. The wait's a little longer these days. Used to be, a few seconds and the kid was a goner. Now, though, now it's more than 15. 16. 17--

  
"Fuck you," Sam suddenly grits out, still trying to be all stoic.

  
"Aw, come on," Dean retorts. He bats his eyelashes and brings his hands up to his chest. Leaning forward a little, he simpers, "I'm all star-struck over your big muscles, Sammy!" He darts a hand out, aiming for the chest, and Sam recoils. He slaps at Dean's hand at the same time as he starts laughing.

  
"You asshole! It's not a joke," he tries to scold, but no one would think that based on the way Sam's laughing.

  
Release of tension, Dean figures. Now they're at the point where if it's not immediately life-threatening, then it's not that big of a deal. So Dean's eyes are fucking weirder than shit now. Big whoop. He looks good in sunglasses.

  
Half an hour later, when Sam's lacing up his boots and Dean's zipping all the shit into the duffels, it occurs to him to wonder if this new cosmetic development might have something to do with the dreaded V-word.

  
They all avoid saying it like the plague. Even Bobby doesn't mention it unless he has to, and then it's a painful game of Watch Him Work Up The Nerve. Dean, Sam, Bobby, they're all trying by some unspoken agreement to kinda just. . . ignore it. _If it's not immediately life-threatening. . . _

  
Dean zips the weapons bag closed, and hears Sammy stand up from the bed behind him.

  
They just don't talk about it.

  
Which is probably why it's never occurred to him to ever really quiz Cas about Vessels. Dean remembers Jimmy, and he remembers the living corpse Raphael plays Dress-Up in. Dean remembers more than he thinks he really should about things he'd like nothing more than to forget. He doesn't know the hows or whys, but there's stuff in his head that probably shouldn't be there. 

  
There are memories that don't belong to him, rolling around upstairs and mucking everything up. He somehow knows things, too, certain. . . things that he shouldn't, words that make no sense and that. . . taste _alien_, for lack of a better word.

  
"Time to go," Dean says, and doesn't even have to look to know, _sense_, Sammy nodding and grabbing up his share of their collective shit.

  
Dean picks up the weapons bag in his left hand, and turns to grab his own duffle with his right. He follows Sam to the door, like every single time for too many times to count. As he's pulling it closed behind himself, though, as he's doing a final visual sweep of the craptastic room. . . he recognizes another one of those painful truths. Cos you can lie to everyone and you can definitely lie to yourself.

  
You just can't lie to yourself _very well_, is all.

  
Dean closes the door to the room, then turns and goes over to the Impala's trunk. Sam's got it open and is, for once, just standing next to it calmly instead of. . . all little-brotherly. Lots of things are different these days. And Dean and Bobby, and everyone and every_thing_ else in existence, too, for that matter, can say what they will, but Sammy. . . Dean kinda thinks Sammy's more comfortable in his own skin now than he ever was before.

  
Maybe it's just knowing the truth, regardless of how utterly terrifying it is. Sam always did like having all the facts. 'S what makes him such a good hunter.

  
Dean pushes the bags in the trunk, and looks up. Sam nods and pushes off, heading for the passenger side. Push the trunk closed. Step around and take three big steps. Grab handle. Push and pull and swing door open. It's like a ritual. Rinse and repeat. As familiar as it gets. Like Sam's facial expressions, or the sound of the Impala, or cleaning the guns, or. . .

  
"Dean?"

  
"Yeah, yeah. Comin'," he answers, settling into the role again. Dean jerks open the car door and slides inside. Keys are in the ignition and he wakes the old gal up. Time to hit the road again, Babe, he thinks, easing her into reverse. Like home. Routine.

  
. . . and, the truth is, as completely familiar as Cas, with all his alien thoughts and memories.

  
***

  
Sam looks up from whatever it is online that's got his focus. "You headin' out?" he asks.

  
Dean nods, adjusts the fall of his jacket. "We're getting a little light in the cash department," he says, and Sammy quirks his lips.

  
"Pool?" he suggests.

  
Dean raises his hand, makes the shooting motion and clicks his tongue. "Got it in one," he congratulates.

  
Another nod, distracted this time as Sam's gone back to looking at the laptop screen. "Need me along?" he asks.

  
Dean grabs the keys, double checks his wallet and personal arsenal. "Nope," he replies. "You just get that beauty rest, Princess. Want you looking sharp tomorrow. Gotta move out on that potential harpy up North."

  
Another nod, brief twitch of the mouth in response. Sam mumbles something that's either "Be careful" or "Be fruitful." Dean's not sure which it is, just nods and leaves. He climbs into the Impala, starts her up, then heads on out to the street and farther up the highway towards this town's excuse for a 'business district.' He passes some more skeazy motels, and across from those are the crappy diners, restaurants and fast food chains. First bar he sees is right next to a 24-hour Laundromat. He snorts, keeps driving. Next place is just a liquor store, but again, it's snuggled right up against a Laundromat. Freakin' weird.

  
Although, to be honest, washing clothes in a Laundromat _would _be a much better experience if one were, say, hammered. At least buzzed, he thinks, passing another few food chains, a couple car dealerships and one weird looking collectibles store. He'll have to suggest to Sammy that they get liquored up before going about tackling their own dirty clothes problem. Last time Dean can remember folding clean laundry was back in Iowa, and that's going on two months ago. Yikes.

  
He passes quite a few bars on the drive, but doesn't stop at any. He heads towards the outskirts of the town, and then _passes _the outskirts and city limits completely. There's a State Park of some sort around here and, for some jacked up reason, Dean finds himself driving into it and parking. He's under a big ass tree in the middle of nowhere. The car's turned off, and the whole place is that special kind of quiet where squirrels chittering sound like lions.

  
It's the kind of quiet that grates on his nerves because with nothing distracting him. . .

  
Sometimes, Dean just feels really, really angry. And nine times outta ten, that anger's all for God, for this world The Big Bastard Created that just fucks people over. Is there happiness here? Really? Is there-- is there even really love, or is that just another trick? One more pretty lie for the 'hairless apes.'

  
"Fuck," he ends up whispering. "Fucking bullshit. Asshole." He moves his hand up to his eyes, rubs at 'em and then it hits him like a brick to the back of the head.

  
His goddamn eyes. He couldn't have gone into a bar and hustled pool if he'd wanted to. No sunglasses in his pocket cos he hadn't even thought to bring 'em. Hicks'd be all over that. Some guy with fucking freak eyes comes in and--

  
"God fucking damn it!"

  
"Dean."

  
He nearly clocks him right in the mouth. He's _that close_, and the only thing preventing Cas from being on the receiving end of Dean's fist is the embarrassment.

  
Being caught crying is worse than that time Dad walked in on him in the bathroom when he was 13. Dean can't even look at the guy. Angel. Winged bastard.

  
"Not a good time," Dean grits out.

  
"My apologies," Cas rolls out in that rumble of his. He's looking at Dean, burning a hole in the side of his face. It's creepy, unsettling.

  
It is. It's also familiar. Sitting here, in this strange place after this stranger than usual case, Dean knows nothing about this situation should feel comforting or safe. In a normal world, some guy pops up in the passenger seat of a car unexpected-like and he'd find himself in a shitload of trouble real fast. In a pre-Hell world even, some dude in a trench coat magically teleports into the Impala while Dean's silently freaking out. . . that dude's not teleporting back out without some kind of physical reminder as to why sneaking up on a Winchester is always a very bad idea.

  
How things change.

  
"You have a question for me," Cas states definitively.

  
"Yeah," Dean agrees, eyes closed. His cheeks feel stiff from where the tears have dried, but he gamely turns and opens his eyes to show Cas. "What the fuck is up with my eyes, Cas?"

  
And here Dean thought that angelic scrutiny couldn't get any more intense. Cas leans closer across the seat, his eyebrows moving down and together. He's frowning.

  
Dude's actually frowning. Castiel, Angel of The Lord: frowning in. . . concern? Confusion? Freakin' Interest?

  
"Well, don't spill it all at once there, Fred," Dean snaps when more than a minute passes and no explanation at all is forthcoming.

  
"This is. . . unexpected."

  
"Uh, what?" Dean asks. More staring. "You mind clarifying that a bit? 'Unexpected?' Is that good?" He's getting really uncomfortable with the close examination, but when he shifts in the seat and goes to look away--

  
"Wait," Cas tells him, hand just suddenly holding Dean by the chin.

  
"Cas. . . "

  
Instead of getting an answer, however, two things happen in quick succession. One, Cas leans even closer, so much so that now there's barely three inches between their faces.

  
And two, this close up, when Dean looks into Cas' eyes he can make out those familiar stars glinting back at him. It's not a reflection from his own eyes showing up as spots on Cas', though. Nope. Dean squints, focuses, and then all at once he can feel his eyes widen and the realization forms.

  
There are stars shining out from within Dean's eyes, and those same stars shine out from Castiel's eyes, as well.

  
***

  



	2. Part II

Dean's a little leery of any kind of touching these days and, if he's honest, has been for. . . awhile. Even when he's the one doing the touching, the initiator, it's still uncomfortable. He just likes his space. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

  
Sam's an exception, of course. Dean chalks up all the extra backslaps and head whaps to him being careful, being sure. After all, Sammy's got the mind mojo. He's now a mental giant in every way, pretty much, so it only makes sense for Dean to physically reach out and touch the guy. Gotta make sure it's him, make sure it's not some illusion or mind trick.

  
Gotta make sure it's Sammy there, and not some. . .

  
But Sam's the only one. Dean had enough touching Downstairs. He doesn't need any more; he doesn't want any more.

  
Cas doesn't get that, though. From the start, it was 'Lay Hands on Dean' here and 'Grip His Shoulder Tight' there and always, always with the personal space issues. And after every time, Cas listens while Dean explains the whole touching problem to him. He stands there and doesn't blink, and Dean _knows _the guy understands what's being said. And then, a week or two later, it's like the talks never happened and Cas is totally within his angelic rights to 'Lay Hands on Dean' again. And the 'Grip His Shoulder Tight' keeps happening more and more often, more often than either of them seem exactly comfortable with, too. Dean's positive he's not the only one left feeling freaked out after every time Cas' hand touches that mark on his shoulder.

  
So, sitting in the car, at night, in the backend of nowhere with someone right up in his personal space. . . ten years ag-- hell, _five _years ago, this would've been a completely different situation. It certainly wouldn't have been Dean trying to get away from Mr. Handsy. Before any of this crap started, Dean _was _Mr. Handsy, and the smoothest operator this side of the Mississippi. Now he's been recast in the role of--

  
"Dude," he finally speaks up, "personal bubble here." He gestures with his hands.

  
Cas doesn't blink. "You are upset that I am close," is all he says. Says, not asks.

  
"Yes," Dean says, just as definitively back. "So, uh, how 'bout you scoot that way?" He waves his hand at the passenger side door. "And I'll head that way?" he suggests, pointing behind himself. "Sound good? Like a plan? Cas," he says, cos, damn it, he's still getting the unblinking stare in response.

  
"I feel I must offer my sincerest apology, Dean Winchester," Castiel suddenly, and very ominously, announces. He's like two inches away and his hand's still holding Dean by the chin. And where he expects to feel hot breath on his face from Cas' mouth. . .there's nothing. No breath. Cas isn't breathing.

  
Or, the body Cas uses isn't breathing.

  
"Uh, what?" Dean asks, finally blinking his own eyes after what feels like a minute or two of just staring. Great. Creep-O the Angel is rubbing off on him and--

  
Okay, not the word choice he was going for.

  
"Apologize?" Dean repeats. "Why? What for?"

  
And of course _that's_ when Cas decides it's time to move back over to his side of the Impala. When getting an answer actually becomes more important than getting an angel away from his face, that's when said angel just quietly moves away of his own volition. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think that was an attempt at distraction.

  
Oh, fuck no. Dude calls Dean on all his shit. He's sure as hell getting called on his own.

  
"Cas," Dean demands, "what do you need to apologize for? This?" he asks, pointing at one of his eyes. "You have something to do with my new look? Is this more angel hoodoo?"

  
No more scary-close eye contact. No eye contact of any kind. Cas has turned his head and is now doing a piss-poor impersonation of playing dumb.

  
"Dude! You don't say that shit and then not clarify. Come on, spill. What's up with the eyes? You've got 'em, too, don'tcha? Is it some sort of secret? A rite or-- ?"

  
"It is only the inevitable becoming truth," Cas interrupts. Voice low and eyes still staring at something else besides Dean, he adds, "This is not something I had taken into consideration. I had not thought of fear. I apologize for my lack in this area, and ask your forgiveness."

  
Dean can't look away. Cas isn't looking back, and now it's Dean who's staring at Cas like all the answers are just. . . right there in the guy's face. Is this what Cas feels? This overpowering sense of confusion and foreboding? If Dean says the wrong thing right now, will he fuck everything up?

  
Cos it sure as hell feels that way.

  
On the head of a pin. . .

  
"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about, but, Cas," and here Dean kinda verbally stumbles, but he rallies. "You don't need to freakin' apologize, man. I'm not-- I know I give you shit for. . . pretty much everything, but most of it-- most of it, I don't mean. You know that, right?" He keeps looking for any kind of emotional response from Cas, but comes up empty-handed. "It's just frustration. I'm human," he jokes, huffing out a chuckle like it's somehow funny. "Can't be perfect like you guys."

  
Castiel turns to look at Dean as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

  
"We are not perfect. Only God is such. And you are human," he agrees, those eyes zeroing in on Dean's once more like magnets snapping together, "but you are not lesser. I challenge any to find a being more generous." Castiel shifts closer again, and Dean can't even summon up a tiny amount of negative feeling about that. "Humans," Castiel goes on, "are as they were meant to be: varied, complex, fascinating. And complete.

  
"You are not dependent upon God," he states, "and yet nearly all of you come to Him, one way or another."

  
"No atheists in foxholes," Dean rasps out.

  
Castiel nods and his eyes flare. Dean sucks in a quick breath as he feels--

  
"And in _your _foxhole," the Angel leans forward to whisper in his ear, "did you pray?"

  
Another quick gasp in, but there's no lying.

  
Not to Castiel.

  
Dean nods, once.

  
"And did He not answer? Did His Hand not set into motion your salvation? Dean," the Angel says quietly, right into Dean's ear. And he shouldn't expect there to be a push of air with those words, shouldn't anticipate the scratch of stubble from that cheek, shouldn't because this is not a man talking. This being, who's close, too close, knows too much, always sees what Dean tries to hide and speaks words he needs to hear, and never gives u-- this being is not a man.

  
This is Castiel.

  
"Dean," the Angel calls to him again. There's movement, rustling of fabric. A hand sets down on Dean's throat, and shouldn't there be some kind of panic at that? He is being touched, and always feels uncomfortable with that. Right?

  
More movement. The hand slides under his jacket and overshirt, then skims to the side and down. Down to his shoulder.

  
"Dean," Castiel says a third time, and in that moment chooses to set his hand once more t--

  
**And are We not Complete? Are We not One in The Lord?**

  
**You wear many faces**, Castiel Speaks. **And yet few are in you, of you. Few are true.**

  
Stop.

  
**You are afraid**, Castiel Speaks. **Why?**

  
Stop this. Get away.

  
**Another face**, Castiel Declares.

  
What-- what is thi-- ?

  
**Eyes of Heaven**, Castiel Proclaims. **Bond. Close. You Know these words?**

  
Of. . . heaven?

  
**And I am Set upon your Path**, Castiel Tells. **The Father Chooses to Set me. His Hand doth Move us all and _that_. . . _that _is how--**

  
**We are Alike. We are One and the Same.  
**

Every one is everyone, Dean remembers.

  
Castiel Smiles, Embraces him.

  
**And all are His.**

  
This is ridiculous.

  
**And you are afraid**, Castiel repeats, **and now I Know. I See.**

  
Not afraid. Just--

  
**It is that which Binds and brings us Close that Men fear. It is Love that terrifies you.**

  
I'm not terrified of love. That's--

  
**No masks here**, Castiel confides. **You are what you are and Truth is all there is. We seek to hide, all of us. We tried and He Saw. Now, there are no falsehoods. You speak, and I See. I Know what you Speak. I Know if it is Truth.**

  
Like Santa, making a freakin' list.

  
**From God**, Castiel corrects. **He Created us. He Created you.**

  
And then left us all behind.

  
**No. You Speak falsely. I See.**

  
Showoff, Dean returns. And, no lying? What about deceiving by not speaking? You were lied to, Castiel. Your. . . brothers told you lies. Falsehoods. Did you See them? Know they weren't speaking the. . . Truth?

  
**I Speak only Truth**, Castiel admits. **It is not in me to Lie. I was not Given that.**

  
And the others? Was it given to them?

  
**Yes. Many are More than I. All.**

  
More? What do you mean more?

  
**You fear Love, Dean**, Castiel Speaks. **Love is what He Made us. You fear yourself. Do you See? It is foolish. You do not need it.**

  
Angelic change of subject, Dean says.

  
**Truth**, Castiel Declares. **You fear what is given to you freely. You fear what He Gives to you, unquestioningly. **

  
But I'm complete, you said, Dean returns. Humans are complex and complete. If I'm complete, then I don't need love. I don't need His love. If I'm complete, I don't need anything.

  
**You are complete, only so long as you are**, Castiel confides. **Humans are complete, then they Become One. You were complete. Then you became One. Now, you--**

  
What? Now, I'm _not__?_ I was, and then wasn't, and now I'm some kind of divine fluke? And that being One crap: being One with hell? Is that what you're telling me? We're born. We die. We go to heaven or hell and that's all there is? Where's the-- ?!

  
**And Salvation is inside us all.**

  
Castiel embraces him again, pulls him Close.

  
**And you shall fear nothing, nor pain, nor loss. You are One with Him. You, Dean Winchester, are One. **

  
**Every one is everyone**, is breathed into his mouth.

  
Breath of Life.

  
And all are His.

  
Eyes of Heaven.

  
**Love and be Whole**, Castiel's Soul Tells him.

  
Love and be complete?

  
Cas smiles, and it's like the sun burning.

  
"All you need is love," Cas whispers against Dean's lips.

  
And Dean presses forward, even as he's chuckling.

 

  



End file.
